Hit Man

Frank sat in the hospital room staring at the tired flesh, the gaunt head resting on a bony pike neck.  Flesh hanging like it was on a coat rack.

“Aren’t you scared to die” Frank asked, Feeling like he was sitting  in Hitler’s bunker during the fall of Berlin.

“I’ve led a full life,” the general rasped.

Frank sat staring at the old man. He got up towering  over his hospital bed. He quizzed the old man.

“What about the souls you took?”

“It had to be done. There were elements bent on destruction of an orderly society. They were Communists.”

Frank slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The old man’s brown, blood-shot eyes followed every move. Eyes accepting their

fate;eyes saying go ahead and do it but I was right and not even you can take it away from me at this moment.

Wrapping his hands around the soft, well-worn flesh of the old man’s neck Frank tightened his fingers and squeezed. The

old general fought and struggled at first flaying his legs and grabbing at Frank with his stick like fingers and aged hands. Frank

pressed tighter the old man let out a sigh and went limp. He lay still on the bed a vacant stare in his eyes. Pulling a

flower arraignment from a vase on a table next to the bed , Frank spread them over the still body like spreading cards. Outside

the room. Frank heard people shuffling in the hospital hall. Pealing off the blue colored gloves Frank wadded them up

making a rubber ball. He pushed the blue mass in to his right front pocket. Frank walked through the front door. In the car, he decided he was hungry and drove off to get a hot dog.






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